


He's Not Racist But...

by Em3kitty



Series: Original Short Stories [3]
Category: Anita Heiss - Poet
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em3kitty/pseuds/Em3kitty
Summary: This is a short story I wrote, based on the poem "I'm not racist but..." by Anita Heiss. The original poem was about Aboriginal Australians, specifically so the story does have slight indications that it is Aboriginal. I do not own in any shape or form the original poem by Anita Heiss, which I shall include a link to within the story. I own the short story.





	He's Not Racist But...

[Original Poem " _I'm not racist but..._ " by Anita Heiss](http://stoptheintervention.org/facts/films-and-literature/poem-by-anita-heiss)

You hear the ancient grandfather clock strike one in the morning in the eerily quiet household, the only other sound remaining was that of keys on a tired old typewriter rapidly keying letters and the ringing as a fresh line started. You might have used a computer, or even hand written the editorial, nevertheless, there's something about your father's typewriter that is comforting, stimulating. Looking up from your editorial, almost complete for the Sydney Morning Herald, you begin to realise how much of a muddle you have made, focusing desperately on your project. To your left is a half-eaten sandwich from yesterday's lunch, sitting behind it is your tea from breakfast the previous morning; the milk is on its way to being curdled. To your right are piles and piles of paper, mostly all the drafts that you kept starting over.

Reading over the article one last time, you find yourself, for the first time since you started, satisfied with what you've written.  _Nothing to say sorry for: Howard_. With an air of disgust, you slowly remove your glasses and walk out of the office, thinking you might prepare yourself a calming cup of tea before heading off to bed. You could only hope that this article was accepted. For the past 7 years since you graduated from high school, every single article you have written has been turned down. Their excuses range from the pitying "we just don't have the space to feature it" to the crude, blunt, "no one wants to hear from an Abo." After numerous years and several tries, this might be the one.

As you waited for the jug to boil, placing the tea bag of your favourite tea into the delicate china cup, you mull over what you could have been possibly thinking when you originally revoted him in, back in '04. One of the quotes in your article resounds back at you; I do not believe, as a matter of principle, that one generation can accept responsibility for the acts of an earlier generation. I don't accept that as a matter of principle. You let out a snort of disgust.

Taking a sip of the hot tea, somewhat scolding on your tongue, you ponder on the way that society has treated you. You've been rejected by cabbies, rejected the option to rent a flat, you've even been in a failed relationship. All thanks to your heritage. As you contemplate about Her, Her father never accepting you since you're black, you felt slightly sick in the stomach. The last words that you distinctly remember hearing from Her father played over and over in your head. "I'm not racist but-" you knew what was coming, however never wanting to hear it, you had tuned out. He was a Howard supporter. No longer wanting the tea, the thoughts making the flavour taste sour and bitter, you disposed of it down the sink, washing it away roughly with water from the nozzle. You'll clean in the morning, or rather, when you waken.

She was the utmost strikingly beautiful creature you had ever laid eyes on. Although Her father claimed he wasn't a racist. He couldn't be further from the truth. He called you a drunk, though you've never had a sip of liquor in your life. He claimed you didn't wash, despite the fact that you had at least two showers a day to show him wrong. Nonetheless, of course, She was a respectable little daddy's girl. Not a day went by when you didn't envision Her.

As you crawled into bed, you couldn't help but think of Her. Her smile, Her eyes, Her hands, all of Her. And as you slowly drift off to sleep, you smile, knowing you'll receive a glimpse of Her in your fantasies.


End file.
